


From Cold to Fire

by flourcrowned



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Sentinels & Guides, Alternate Universe - Sentinels and Guides Are Known, Alternate Universe - Werewolves Are Known, Angst, Derek is still a wolf, Detective Stiles, F/M, I can't write anything without a generous helping of tears, M/M, More than one actually, Soul Bond, Stiles has to solve a murder, all the wolves are still wolves, because of course there's angst
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-03-29
Updated: 2016-10-18
Packaged: 2018-05-29 23:41:56
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 8
Words: 18,685
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6399004
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/flourcrowned/pseuds/flourcrowned
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Stiles had never wanted to be a Sentinel. He had wanted to be a Guide like his mother, but when she was killed in front of him, fate had other plans. Now, as a detective for the Beacon Hills Police Department's Enhanced Division, he uses his abilities to serve and protect those around him, determined to prove himself as capable and in control - despite being unbonded.</p><p>Derek had never wanted to be a Guide. Being a werewolf, Sentinels were the expectation, but no one could have predicted how much fire can destroy. Now, working in the Sentinel Rehabilitation Center, he attempts to repair his own abilities as he brings back Sentinels from the edge, but each bond he mends is a reminder of what he doesn't want - something that can break.</p><p>But, when the mutilated bodies of Guides start being found, Stiles finds himself chasing after a killer that's far more sinister than he imagined and threatens more than he ever dreamed, including something he never thought he wanted.</p><p>A bond with a Guide.</p><p> </p><p>  <a href="http://8tracks.com/goforthandconquer/from-cold-to-fire">Official Playlist at 8tracks</a></p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Boy with a Broken Soul

As another zoned-out Sentinel was brought into the clinic, Derek found himself contemplating running away for the fifth time that day. As it was, he sat sulking in the corner as Deaton read over the assessment papers before the doctor looked pointedly at him.

“Derek?”

Trying not to growl to loudly, Derek lumbered forward, standing next to the stretcher and the comatose man lying on it. 

“What?”

Deaton’s expression remained blank, which was a feat in itself. Guides were natural empaths, and the head of the Sentinel Rehabilitation Center, part of the National Facility for Enhanced Humanity, was one of the strongest of his kind. That being said, while Deaton could sniff out an emotion from thirty meters away, he wasn’t known for revealing his own. Which was equally welcoming and frustrating as hell.

“I believe that this is part of your training, is it not?” Deaton asked, though it wasn’t really a question. 

Derek shrugged rather than answer.

The elder Guide had remarkable self-control, considering he’d been dealing with Derek for about six month now and had yet to thrown him out of the building. He’d even wolfed out once, when a particularly rabid Sentinel had tried to attack him in the midst of a feral haze. It hadn’t been difficult to restrain the man, already out of his senses. 

Of course, most people were uncomfortable with werewolves to begin with, much less a werewolf Guide that was nearly as strong (or stronger) than most Sentinels. Even moreseo because Derek was an Alpha (how his sister hadn't inherited the title, they still didn't know). It was one of the many reasons why he was past thirty and was still unbonded. The other being his sharp shift into a Guide at sixteen years old as his body was suddenly wracked with the screams of his family burning alive. Even returning to Beacon Hills half a year ago, no one had approached Derek about bonding interviews and he certainly wasn’t going to bring it up. That was why he was stuck in the SRC helping zoned-out Sentinels and trying Deaton’s patience.

“This one will be a little different,” Deaton informed him.

Derek frowned. “How so?”

“This young man does indeed have a bond. Or, rather, he did.”

The shock that shot through his system made his breath catch. “The bond is broken?”

The bond between a Sentinel and Guide was sacrosanct. It was the strongest link that could be achieved and was rarely ever broken except in death. However, it was not impossible for the bond to break. Betrayal, trauma, heartbreak, all of these could fray the link between Sentinel and Guide, until the lightest pressure snapped the thread. Broken Guides were generally considered outcasts, unable to keep the bond clean and whole. For the Sentinels, the bond breaking was tantamount to soul-crushing, as they retreated into zone-out rather than face a world unbonded. 

Deaton nodded. “Yes, the bond is broken. It seems that Mister Whittemore’s relationship with his Guide has never been particularly smooth.”

Derek swallowed, felt something harden in the center of his chest. This is why he was still unbonded and was glad to remain so. Even if there were times when the warm darkness at the heart of him ached with longing, a song radiating in his bones so sorrowful that it hurt to breathe - to have such a thing only to lose it-

“Place your hand in the middle of his chest,” Deaton instructed. “He is already restrained, so he will not strike out if he surfaces too quickly.”

Derek grumbled, placing a hand on the young man’s sternum. He felt the breaths beneath his palm, could hear the blood rushing through fragile veins. He closed his eyes. He had done this enough times already, Deaton was a stickler for practice, so Derek sank easily enough into his center, the warm-dark core that marked him as Guide. He heard the steady pulse of the Sentinel’s heartbeat, followed it into into the heady brightness that was the center of every Sentinel. He slid through, parsed between the hyper senses that were flailing useless until he found the one that was overextended (sight).

“That’s it.” Deaton’s voice pierced the darkness. “Now, time to bring him back.”

And, this is the part where things always got fucked up.

Guides were natural empaths, able to connect with people on a level deeper than surface understanding. This was more profound with Sentinels, individuals whose five senses were beyond advanced. These senses were usually paired with increased strength and agility, and Sentinels were considered the finest humanity had to offer, superhumans that were sought to serve and protect the public. 

But, with hyperextension comes the possibility of snapping. If a Sentinel focused too much on one sense, they could cut the other lines and become trapped outside the world. Zone-out was a particular danger for unbonded Sentinels, who didn’t have a Guide to keep them grounded and connected to the world. The SRC was the place where Sentinels who zoned-out came to get their reality check. Trained Guides, like Deaton, were then able to slowly bring them back, loosening the threads until the Sentinel was balanced once again. In order to do that, these Guides needed to be empathetic, emotionally available, and trustworthy.

Derek was none of these things.

 _Uhh,_ he said into the brightness, the telepathic bond temporary but mostly solid, _My name is Derek. I’m a Guide. You need to come with me._

A voice wavered in the center. _You’re a Guide?_ The voice seemed skeptical.

Derek swallowed back his temper. _Yeah, I’m a Guide, and you’re the zoned-out Sentinel I’m trying to rescue. You coming or not?_

 _Has anyone told you that you suck at this?_ the voice retorted.

The bond was already beginning to fray, anxiety and frustration tearing away at the threads. Derek bit back a curse. _Come on, Sentinel, you got stuck on sight and now I’m trying to bring you back to reality. Just follow my voice, okay?_

_I can’t - I can’t stop seeing her face. She trusted me... And now it’s over and I can’t - I can’t!_

_Wait!_

With a violent shove, Derek was thrust out of the brightness and back into the clinic, snapping his hand back as if he’d been burned. He could help his ragged breathing, being forced out of a Sentinel’s center was always an unpleasant experience, but he managed to keep his wolf beneath his skin.

“I see.”

He turned his head to Deaton, who had a serious set to his mouth. Bitterness stuck in his mouth; he moved away from the stretcher. “I’m going home.”

Deaton nodded. “Perhaps I have overtaxed you today. I expect to see you here at eight tomorrow morning.”

Derek didn’t say anything, just grabbed his key card and started towards the doors.

“Derek?”

He stopped, allowed himself to look over his shoulder. Deaton’s face was schooled in perfect Guide mask, tender and sympathetic and he wanted to tear it off.

“We’ll figure this out,” Deaton said. The lie sounded like a promise. “You’re going to be an excellent Guide.”

Those words circled his head as Derek made his way to the bottom of the NFEH, passing the floors for Sentinel training and bonding interviews. He stomped into the locker room, empty at this time of night, and washed off the stink of antiseptic in the shower. He tossed the pale blue scrubs into his gym bag, throwing on jeans, henley, and leather jacket, before finally making his way of the facility. Stepping out into the afternoon sunlight, Derek shoved his hands into his pockets, staring at the cement beneath his seat.

Deaton could say whatever he wanted, but it didn’t change the fact that Derek didn’t want to be a decent Guide. He didn’t want to be a Guide at all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> That's right, folks! I'm baaaaaack!
> 
> I know, you all have missed your angsty fix, well have no fear! There will be plenty for all and (hopefully) I won't make you wait too long between chapters. So get your popcorn, get your tissues, and stay tuned!


	2. Self Made Cages

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Stiles sighed. He really would have made a better Guide.

Stiles had never wanted to be a Sentinel.

He had grown up wanting to be a Guide like his mom, who was kind and strong and could put his Sentinel father in his place with a just a look. Even as a young child, Stiles had known who held the power in the relationship, who was the stronger of the pair. He loved watching her work, settling his father down with just a few words and a touch to his arm. He had followed her around, helping her at the SRC to bring Sentinels back from zone-out. Watching those wan, pale faces suddenly sparkle into life at her touch, how they stared at her with awe, Stiles knew that’s what he wanted for himself. And, no one doubted that this was his path. He had always been sensitive, taking stray puppies and lonely kids under his wing to nurture them to health before releasing them again, stronger than ever before. It was known that it was only a matter of time before Stiles Stilinski felt his gift unfold in his chest and took his place as a Guide.

He had not expected, at eleven years old, to see his mom dying right in front of him. 

The car had come tearing around the corner, tires squealing as the headlights blinded him. His mother had screamed and Stiles had found himself rolling across the asphalt, his nose bloodied and hands scraped raw. When he looked up, the car’s front was crumpled and so was his mom, lying on her back at an awkward angle. He had crawled over to her, stroked his bloodied hands through her hair.

“Darling,” she had whispered. “You take care of your father, okay? Promise me.”

There was had been a shout; the man in the car was trying to get the car started, trying to get away. Stiles had seen him yelling at his engine and something snapped inside him. Instead of warm darkness, his insides flashed with blinding light. The world came into full technicolor, swam in surround sound. He could hear the blood filling his mother’s lungs. He could feel the pollen sweeping across his skin. He tasted the iron-proteins-electrolytes tacky on his tongue. Slowly, he had stood, feeling the brightness sweep through him until it burned in his blood and bones. Stiles looked at the man inside the car, grabbed the hood, and tore it off the car. Heat seared his palms as he ripped through the engine, tearing it open and twisting everything until the metal was in knots.

When he turned back to his mom, still lying on the ground, ambulance sirens were wailing in the distance. But, it was already too late. Stiles heard his mother’s heartbeat stutter into silence and he zoned-out into darkness.

It had been weeks until he had surfaced. He still wasn’t sure if it was a blessing or a curse.

He walked through the training facility, hefting his bag more firmly over his shoulders. He was hoping to get some real training in before Morrell marched him into another interview room. As a newly deputized member of the Beacon Hills Police Department, Stiles had been put on the fast track for finding a Guide of his own. It was, as Morrell liked to remind him, unseemly for an unbonded Sentinel to be tasked with protecting the public. There were too many risks, too many mistakes that could be made. 

When he strolled into the gym, Scott was already there, going through the motions with a sandbag. Scott had been fourteen when he’d shifted into a Sentinel, a perfectly respectable age as most shiftings happened around puberty. Stiles was younger than expected, and shifting due to trauma was considered cause for concern. He hadn’t managed to make any friends at the Academy, the specialty school of Sentinels and Guides, until a boy with floppy hair and puppy eyes had sat beside him at lunch and asked him “Marvel or DC?” After that, the two were practically inseparable, as if they were bonded themselves.

They had stayed at the Academy all through high school and continued into advanced studies at the National Center for Enhanced Humanity (or the Barren, as Stiles liked to call it, because it was white and large and empty of intelligence). Not that Sentinels were dumb, per se, but they were often told to rely on instinct and brute strength than really strategize. Stiles preferred the mental framework that came with planning a defense or plotting an attack rather than doing the actual attacking.

Stiles sighed. He really would have made a better Guide.

“Hey, Stiles!” Scott waved before slamming his fist into the punching bag.

“Sup, dude?” Stiles greeted.

Scott grinned. “Not much. Park’s been pretty quiet lately. Nothing of interest to report.”

Being a park ranger suited Scott perfectly, as a person and a werewolf. The bite had happened their sophomore year when a rogue Alpha had nearly torn Beacon Hills apart. Stiles had been the one to help Scott control the wolf and the Sentinel, weaving them together until they were the same being. Working at the park gave Scott endless of acres to run and lots of new scents to follow. He was always brown as a nut and absurdly happy.

“Well, try to keep the squirrel population down,” Stiles replied, striking fast with his right before switching to a left hook. “Those assholes keep running out in front of the Jeep and I’m going to get myself killed trying to avoid them.”

“Aww, Stiles breaks for squirrels. That’s adorable.”

“Shut up.”

They worked out in mutual silence, concentrating on their form. Scott was raw power and little finesse, though, since he had bonded with Kira, he was rapidly gaining the control that came with being bonded. 

Kira was something like an accident, though the best kind of accident. They had met a few years after Scott had turned, while Scott was still in love and (sort-of) dating Allison Argent. Allison was not only a werewolf bounty hunter, just like her family, but she was also a Sentinel. That hadn’t stopped the two of them from pursuing a romance, even knowing that they could never be bonded, even knowing her father would always be armed when Scott’s eyes flashed red. It was something out of Shakespeare, though Stiles knew how Shakespearean romances tended to end.

Allison and Scott had been on one of their “breaks,” the kind that usually meant pining from afar and desperate pleas to work things out, when Kira Yukimura had moved to Beacon Hills to start her nursing course. It wasn’t the instantaneous spark that most expected between Guide and Sentinel, but a slow orbiting that moved the werewolf and kitsune closer and closer. Stiles had watched it with bated breath, hoping that Kira would be patient, hoping that Scott wouldn’t run back to the familiar. Then, on just an ordinary morning, they had looked at each other over coffee and the bond threaded into place. Just a month later, the two of them went through the formal ceremony, followed by the three week sabbatical to smooth out the bond. Scott’s strength had deepened overnight, settling into his bones, the wolf steady in his blood.

Stiles, on the other hand, was still unbonded (which was what he wanted but what no one else wanted) and as such was considered a liability. He wasn’t a terribly strong Sentinel, but was an expert at the pressure points that could bring an opponent down with little to no effort. He much rather rely on a few well-placed hits than the overexertion that came with pummeling your opponent to dust.

“Kira’s meeting me for lunch,” Scott said as he grabbed his water bottle, dumping it over his floppy hair. “You should totally join.”

Stiles shook his head, leading the way into the showers. “Nah, man. I got another interview today.”

“For real? Dude, that sucks.”

“Don’t I know it,” Stiles sighed. They pushed their into the locker room, already filled with steam and a few other Sentinels. “I face each one with more and more dread.”

Scott offered him a shrug and a wan smile. “Yeah, I know. But, who knows, maybe you’ll meet your Guide there. Having a Guide is the most amazing thing ever.”

Stiles thought about his dad sitting at the kitchen table, staring into the bottom of a whiskey bottle. 

“Yeah,” he mumbled. “Amazing.”

He shuffled into the showers, morose and refusing to rise from his funk. The water was a rush of silvery points over his skin, the churning of water rolling through his ears. He closed his eyes, breathing deep. Dove soap and sweat and forest and Tilex filled his lungs, released on an exhale-

Wait, what?

Stiles breathed in again, focusing. There, beneath the normal locker room smells, was something dark, musky, like the forest after a thunderstorm, like dark roast coffee. It was warm and delicious and Stiles immediately wanted to know where it was from. He finished his shower, following the scent out into the changing area. The other Sentinels gave him weird looks as he slowly stalked past each locker before stopping at a single one. He leaned forward, breathed in again. Whatever it was, it had been here not too long ago, leaving nothing but a wisp of scent behind. It made his pulse throb in his throat.

He barely noticed Scott next to him until there was a sharp poke in his side. “Dude!” Stiles nearly jumped out of his skin, whirling around to face his very confused best friend. “What’s the deal? Are you zoning out in the middle of the locker room?”

“Do you smell that?”

“Smell what?”

Stiles rolled his eyes. “Why don’t you focus and actually see what I’m talking about?”

Scott sniffed dutifully, then shrugged. “Other than man sweat and soap? I’m not getting anything. Are you okay?”

“I just thought-” Stiles let himself trail off. “Never mind. Don’t worry about it.”

Scott grinned, happy that the crisis was averted, and the two of them got ready for their separate days. Stiles made a promise to see Scott and Kira for dinner on Thursday, and Scott went off to another day at the reserve. Stiles tugged at the tie around his neck as he took the elevator the the seventh floor, where all the bonding interviews took place. Doctor Morrell was in the hallway when the doors opened, the sight of her making his stomach sink further.

“Sentinel Stilinski,” she greeted, waving him forward. “How are you this morning?”

He shrugged. “Not bad, I guess.”

“Your work at the station is going well?”

“Nothing to complain about.”

“Even without a Guide?”

He tried his best not to glower. He probably failed. “I’ve been functional without a Guide my whole life, Doctor Morrell,” Stiles pointed out. “I haven’t zoned out since I was eleven years old. Other unbonded Sentinels can barely make it through high school without a visit to the SRC. So, thank you for the concern, but it’s not necessary.”

The Guide gave him a smile meant to be reassuring and was exactly the opposite. “My concern is for your happiness, Sentinel Stilinski. Being bonded would not only improve your already commendable control but secure your future happiness with a partner that can support you. Isn’t that something you want?”

“I suppose.”

She made a humming noise before catching him with a razor gaze. “Every Guide deserves a Sentinel. Every Sentinel deserves a Guide. Even you.”

He didn’t answer, instead he followed her into an empty interview room. It was outfitted sparsely but with comfort, the large sectional sofa and armchairs meant to inspire security. It just made Stiles want to run out the door.

“We have three Guides for the interviews today,” Morrell informed him. “Best of luck, Sentinel. May your bond never break.”

Stiles sat himself in a central chair, set off from the others, and watched Morrell close the door. He could hear his blood rushing through his arteries, the smell of sweat beading at the curve of his lower back. He forced himself to breathe in, then out. He heard footsteps down the hall, quick and nervous, before stopping in front of the room.

The door opened.

The first interview went as expected. Most Guides were young, barely out of the Academy, and were eager to bond. The first, a girl named Charlotte, had gazed at him imploringly, her eyes like the dogs in the ASPCA commercials - all brown and dewy and pleading - though Scott’s puppy eyes put hers to shame. She had twisted her blonde hair around her finger and answered all his questions with a smile and “If it pleases you, Sentinel.” It was downright creepy and Stiles sighed with relief when she was led out of the room shortly thereafter.

The second was a young man named Jeremy, also fresh from the Academy. He was at least talkative, with his own separate interests and hobbies, which Stiles found a welcome change of pace. But, it was obvious that he was not the Sentinel that Jeremy was looking for, despite how the boy was stubbornly trying to read his emotions and connect empathically. Stiles was immediately suspicious, he was a detective after all, and through careful questioning discovered that Jeremy was enamoured with another Sentinel of whom his parents disapproved. It seemed that it would only take a touch for the bond to take, and Jeremy had been under house arrest until his parents could locate a “suitable” Sentinel for him. Stiles was immediately sympathetic, laying a comforting hand on his shoulder.

“The bond cannot be forced or ignored,” he reminded the boy. “If your soul is crying out for this Sentinel, then he is yours, regardless of what your parents think. Tell Morrell. She may look like a hardass, but I assure you that she has your best interests at heart.”

“You think so?” Jeremy seemed hesitant, but was nearly shaking with hope.

Stiles squeezed his shoulder. “Go get your Sentinel, Guide. And may your bond never break.”

A now ecstatic Jeremy was led from the room, while Stiles sank down into his seat. Just one more of these and he could go home. Just one more and he could-

The door opened and his heart stuttered.

“Lydia?”

The strawberry blonde banshee barely acknowledged him as she walked in. She was dressed impeccably, her floral pumps clicking across the tile floor, but her hair seemed to have lost some of its lustre, the shadows beneath her eyes a dull purple. She sat herself across from him and finally met his gaze.

“Hello, Stiles.”

Lydia Martin had been a goddess from the moment Stiles had seen her in first grade, with perfectly spaced pigtails and a new Bad Badtz-Maru stationery set. The fact that she had barely acknowledged his existence didn’t seem to have any effect on his adoration. When she had shifted to Guide, Stiles had been certain she was meant for him. This certainty cemented after her supernatural abilities emerged and marked her as a banshee, those who can commune with the dead. Even as those around her drew back, Stiles found himself ever closer in her orbit, and was sure that it was only a matter of time.

He had almost heard his heart shattering when Lydia had walked into the Academy and run straight into Jackson Whittemore. The tension that had coiled between them had been palpable, their scents already mixing as they stood there staring at each other.

Lydia had broken the silence first. 

“Well,” she scoffed, “what are you waiting for?”

Since then, the two had been inseparable, just waiting until they were eighteen to formalize the bond. Stiles had accepted it, as he had accepted everything else, silently and with salt burning the back of his throat. But, it had gotten better, surprisingly, amazingly better, because it seemed that with a bond nearly in place, Lydia had found it in herself to approach him. The friendship they had formed had been bittersweet for some time, but something had finally settled in Stiles, a kind of acceptance that had him straightening his shoulders and raising his chin. He was Lydia Martin’s best friend, and it felt more right than when he had yearned to be her Sentinel. 

Lydia and Jackson had formalized their bond their senior year and, after graduation, she and Jackson has gone to CalTech, Lydia for bioengineering and Jackson for economics. They had kept contact mainly through Skype and sporadic home visits, and the two of them had only recently returned to Beacon Hills, with new degrees and a sparkling ring on Lydia’s finger.

A ring that was conspicuously absent.

“Lydia-” Stiles tried, the words getting caught up on themselves. “Why are you - what’s going on?”

She sighed like he was a particularly dull child. “I’m being interviewed, of course.”

“Interviewed? That doesn’t make any sense. You’ve already bonded.”

The emotion that flashed across her face nearly gutted him. “Not anymore.”

The implications of that statement rang through the silence. Stiles could barely breathe; he could smell her grief-desperation-shame that flooded from her pores. Lydia smelled _broken_ and that must mean-

“Oh God, Lydia.”

Stiles moved immediately, uncaring about protocol or that Lydia had once threatened to castrate a Sentinel for calling her sweetheart. He sat next to her and threw his arms around her, cradling her against him. When she started sobbing into his shoulder, he pressed his cheek into her hair, murmuring softly.

“I’m so sorry, Lyds. I am so, so sorry.”

She clung to him, her tears soaking the shoulder of his shirt. The smell of salt and saline stung his eyes. He closed them.

“What happened?” He asked when her sobs became muted whimpers.

Her shoulders shuddered. “He lied to me.”

His throat constricted, tight with anger. He swallowed it down. “What happened?”

Lydia hiccuped, pulling herself back to breathe. Her eyes were pink and wet as she pulled out a handkerchief to dab the corners dry. “It seemed like nothing at first,” she explained. “Little pieces of misdirection. Even as a Guide, I feel very strongly about the right to privacy, that everyone deserves their secrets. But, the little things started getting bigger and bigger.”

“What was he hiding?” Stiles heard himself ask.

“There was... a Guide.”

The word resonated in his skull, tumbling through his nerves like a bolt of lightning. A Guide. His pulse thrummed with fury; his teeth ached for blood. A soft hand on his arm pulled him from the edge and he gave Lydia a soft smile.

“Sorry,” he offered. “It’s you, you know.”

She managed a smile. “I know,” she acceded, her face falling serious again. “It’s not what you think. She was still unbonded, young and ambitious. She wanted to bond with a high-ranking Sentinel. Hell, I can relate to that.”

The pieces were becoming clearer. “Jackson caught her eye.”

Lydia nodded. “She knew he was bonded but still pursued him. I guess she was hoping he would fall for her and the bonds would just exchange, like currency. He didn’t want to tell me - was afraid of what I would think. He didn’t want to ruin her for what he considered a little crush.”

“But, it was more than that,” Stiles filled in. He laced his fingers with hers, squeezing gently. “What happened next?”

“She cornered him,” Lydia continued, tears clogging up her words, “when she knew I was coming around. Jackson could have easily put her down, but the girl was still a Guide. Sentinels simply aren’t equipped to harm Guides, even in defense. So, I walked into his office and I saw them.”

“And, the bond broke.”

“It happened so fast,” she whispered. “I stood there and he saw me - saw my face - and I felt him zone out. I tried to catch him, but I hesitated for just one second... and then it snapped. He was gone and now...”

Stiles tightened his grip in hers, pressed his mouth to her hair. “I can’t even imagine - God, I’m so sorry, Lyds.”

She hiccuped again, leaning against him. “When Morrell heard what happened, she let me know that you were interviewing. I figured, what the hell? It’s you, after all. Even if it’s not - it’s still you.”

Stiles let himself breathe, taking in the hints of jasmine-soap-books that was Lydia’s scent. A moment later, he pulled away, releasing her hand. 

“And, I will always be here for you,” he answered. “I will never lie to you, not if I can help it.”

“But?”

“But, I’m not your Sentinel.” Stiles couldn’t contain the tangle of laughter knotted up in his throat. “Christ, can you imagine - there was a time when that was all I ever wanted. But, I was never it for you, Lyds. Even now, I can hear your heart crying out for your Sentinel, and it’s not me.”

Lydia nodded, her face composed. “You’re not wrong,” she allowed. “But, can it be done? I’ve never heard of a broken pair bonding again.”

Mouth sliding into a grin, Stiles bounced to his feet, holding out his hand. “It’s you, Lydia Martin. When have you ever let the odds outwit you?”

She stared at his hand for a moment before returning his smile. Taking his hand, she rose to her feet, swiping at the mascara beneath her eyes and raising her chin up. “Let’s go, Sentinel. I have precedents to break.”

They walked out of the room together, strides matching. The only one waiting outside the doors was Doctor Morrell. She rushed up to them, smiling serene, before her steps faltered.

“You... are not bonded?” She gaped.

Lydia huffed, tossing her hair. “Of course not,” she admonished. “My Sentinel is prettier but not nearly so smart.”

Stiles wasn’t sure how to take that. He took it anyway. “I’m assuming Jackson Whittemore is still in the SRC?”

Doctor Morrell nodded, her eyes slowly widening. “You can’t possibly mean to-”

“We’re done here,” Lydia interrupted. Without another word, the two of them strode down the hall and to the elevator. The redhead was practically buzzing with excitement, her skin lighting up with the thought of reforming the broken bond. Stiles kept silent beside her, happy to take in the sight/sound/smells of her happiness. The elevator doors opened to the hospital wing, and the two of them ignored the questioning looks of the lingering nurses as they pushed open the doors of the SRC. Doctor Deaton was still there, writing up notes on another patient, but didn’t seem particularly surprised to see them.

“Guide Martin, Sentinel Stilinski,” he greeted. “I see that Guide Morrell’s hopes have proven unfounded.”

Lydia marched forward; her fingers trembled. “Where’s my Sentinel?”

The doctor put down the clipboard, motioning Lydia to a curtained off section. “Mister Whittemore is still zoned out,” he warned. “Be delicate.”

She snorted, but her hands were gentle when she pulled back the curtain. Stiles had never seen Jackson so still, as if he were dead already. The man was pale, his lashes fluttered against the black circles of his eyes. Lydia moved herself onto the bed, taking his hand in hers. That simple touch smelled like a spark; it crackled in the air with a burst of heat. The bond would take again. It was only a matter of time.

“Do you want me here, Lyds?” Stiles asked, though he already knew the answer.

Unsurprisingly, she shook her head. “It’s alright,” she said, glancing back at him with a grateful smile. “I know you have work and this is going to be a long day. I’ll let you know what happens.”

Stiles moved forward, kissing her forehead one last time. “Good luck, Guide,” he whispered. “May your bond never break.”

Satisfied, he pulled away, ready to leave Lydia and Jackson and the SRC behind. His mind was already circling with thoughts of the rest of his day when he felt something tug at the center of his chest. He paused, frowning. A moment later, air sank into his lungs, filling them with that forest-thunder-coffee scent from earlier, and his knees nearly buckled.

“Sentinel Stilinski?” Stiles clenched his fists, forced himself to stand steady as he turned around to face Deaton. “Are you quite alright?”

“I’m-” Stiles wasn’t sure how to finish that sentence. The scent was so much stronger here, mixed in with the antiseptic and bleach that did nothing to diminish it. “I’m not sure.”

Deaton took a step forward, brow furrowed. “You seem troubled. Confused. Even, might I say, hopeful.”

Goddamn empaths. 

“It’s nothing,” Stiles assured him. “I just smell something, that’s all.”

That seemed to resonate with the older Guide, his dark eyes suddenly sharp. “What do you smell, Sentinel? It seems to have caught your attention quite fiercely.”

“It’s nothing,” he repeated. The words kept circling in his head, long after he left Deaton’s sharp gaze, after he closed the apartment door behind him and sank against the wood.

He breathed in; the air was clean and empty.

“It’s nothing.”


	3. Digging Up Bones

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Derek glanced at the clock. It was only 8:43 AM, and he had already managed to piss off two Guides.

Derek was not having a good morning.

First, his sister had decided it was appropriate to call him at seven AM to berate him for his continued failure as an Alpha, Guide, and human being. It was a speech he had heard from Laura many times before and would likely hear again. Then, upon readying himself for another day of disappointment, he dropped his phone in a puddle, forgot his coffee on the roof of his car, and slammed his fingers in the door when he slammed it shut. Sure, the broken bones healed almost instantly, but it still hurt like a bitch.

His mood did not improve upon entering the SRC to see Deaton smiling.

“Uhh.” Derek paused, frowning. “What did I do?”

“What makes you think you did something?” Deaton asked.

“Mostly because you’re staring at me. And smiling. No one smiles at me.”

Deaton made no effort to hide his laughter. “I think you’d be surprised.”

“Not about this.”

Instead of replying, Deaton remained cryptically silent, and Derek had to force himself to keep from grinding his teeth. Refusing to allow the empath to further unsettle him, Derek made his daily rounds, reading up on the charts of the SRC’s patients and marking their vital signs into their records. There were fourteen Sentinels currently in the ward, most still in zone-out while the others were in recovery. One of them, Sentinel Greenberg (who, for the life of him, Derek could not remember his first name) was still in the early stages, his senses dampened by the Guides working the clinic as he regained control. Danny Mahealani was to be discharged later that day, and remained unfazed by Derek’s short questions and clipped responses. Most people expected Guides to be nothing short of cheerful, and Derek’s scowling face was always something of a rude awakening.

Marching down the line, Derek checked on Beatrice Cannon, a sixteen-year-old kid that had yet to master her senses. The SRC saw a lot of teenagers, young Sentinels that were bombarded with hormones and had to manage extended abilities on top of that. They usually recovered within a day or two, and Derek would be putting his less-than-stellar abilities to the test with Cannon later that day. Hopefully, it would be more successful than yesterday’s foul-ups.

He marked the oxygen saturation levels down (well within normal range) before moving to the last bed. Upon pushing open the curtain, Derek nearly stumbled over the redhead standing guard over Whittemore’s bed, his supernatural reflexes thankfully kicking in before he could really make things worse.

“What are you doing here?” He demanded.

The woman rounded to face him, her hair actually bouncing across her shoulders like this was a shampoo commercial. She looked him up and down, her bright red lips pursed, and Derek couldn’t squash the feeling that he was being dissected like a specimen under a microscope. Finally, she met his gaze, eyebrow raised.

“Being a successful Guide,” she answered. “What about you?”

Shock snapped him back a step before temper took over. “If you’re not authorized to be here, then get out.”

She rolled her eyes at him. “You think Doctor Deaton wouldn’t have noticed a Guide wandering in here? Of course, I have authorization.”

“Even with authorization, visiting hours aren’t till later,” Derek snapped.

“You know,” she quipped, “you’d be a much better Guide if you removed the giant stick up your ass.”

“Ah.” The growl bubbling up in Derek’s throat immediately fizzled out at the sound of Deaton’s voice. “I’m glad to introduce you two. Derek, this is Lydia Martin, Mister Whittemore’s Guide. Miss Martin, this is my assistant, Derek Hale.”

Lydia Martin narrowed her eyes at him before perking up into a too-wide smile. “Charmed, I’m sure.”

Derek responded with a grunt, mulling over Deaton’s words. Was this woman to be Whittemore’s new guide? Or was she his former one, the one whose bond had snapped? It was unheard of broken bonds being reformed again, the pain of the original break too much for the Guide and Sentinel to bear. If she was his original Guide, Deaton had to be out of his mind to let them attempt bonding once again.

But, even so, Lydia’s scent was one of calmness, of surety. Her determination was pouring off her in warm ripples, echoing in Derek’s center. Despite all the odds stacked against her, the Guide was certain of herself.

“It is unusual to be sure,” Deaton explained, picking up all the nuances in what was unsaid, “but Sentinel Stilinski assured me that if anyone could reform their bond, it was Miss Martin.”

The name was vaguely familiar, but in a town like Beacon Hills, everybody had heard of everybody at some point. Derek shrugged it off. 

“You would trust some meathead Sentinel?” He asked.

Even with the sharp sting of disapproval from Deaton, it was Lydia’s burst of anger that burned through his attention. 

“Stiles is far more successful at this empath business than you are, even as a Sentinel,” she snapped. “You couldn’t parse out what someone was feeling if it was printed and notarized.”

The redhead focused back on Deaton, smiling sweetly. “Thank you for letting me remain in the ward, Doctor Deaton. I’m going to pop out for some fresh air that doesn’t stink of idiocy. If you’ll excuse me.”

With that, she swayed out of the clinic, the click of her heels echoing behind her. It was only when the door was firmly shut that Deaton let loose a weary sigh.

“Honestly, Derek, manners wouldn’t go amiss.”

The wolf knew he had a point, but scowled anyway. “I didn’t know we were taking the word of Sentinels over our own instincts,” he retorted. “You have to know that this won’t work.”

Deaton’s face was as placid as ever, only hints of annoyance sparking in his narrowed gaze. “I know that it hasn’t been attempted before,” he allowed. He took Whittemore’s chart and scanned over it. “But, I already know we’ve seen a jump in his serotonin levels and increased regulation of his heartbeat and blood pressure since Miss Martin started guarding her Sentinel’s bedside. It was Sentinel Stilinski who convinced her to try, and I have to say that the results are proving his judgment correct.”

Looking over the chart himself, Derek couldn’t deny what he was seeing. Still, the idea that Deaton would cater to the whim of a Sentinel grated him, made his teeth itch for want of howling.

“Maybe Stilinski should be your assistant instead,” he grumbled.

The assessing look Deaton gave him had him bristling.

“Stiles has always been intuitive,” Deaton commended. “Frankly, I was surprised that he didn’t shift into a Guide. But, I suppose the trauma of what occurred, and being only eleven…”

The words trailed off into almost a whisper, and Derek found himself straining to hear. Maybe it was the moon beginning to heat his blood, but he couldn’t deny the tendril of curiosity curling in his gut. Shifting at just eleven was rare, usually only accomplished by those with stronger gifts. A Sentinel who shifted that young could have all five senses expanded beyond those of other Sentinels, who tended to have one in particular that was stronger than the rest. And, what trauma did this Stiles experience? The scent of smoke filled Derek’s nostrils and he shook his head, tossing the old memory away, screams lingering in its wake.

“Regardless,” Deaton’s voice interrupted his thoughts, “you don’t have to be a Guide to master common courtesy.”

Derek glanced at the clock. It was only 8:43 AM, and he had already managed to piss off two Guides. It had to be some sort of personal record. Derek glowered his way through the rest of the morning, following Deaton’s instructions and his supernatural hearing doing a better job at determining the vital signs of the patients than the machines themselves. By lunch hour, Derek was hoping that his streak of bad luck was finally breaking.

“Mister Hale.”

Gritting his teeth, Derek turned to see the calm countenance of Doctor Morrell, his stomach plummeting. It seemed that his day was meant to be horrible. 

“Hello, Doctor,” he managed.

She smiled in a way that was meant to be reassuring. Derek held back a grimace. 

“It’s been some time since I last spoke to you,” she said. “How is your training with Doctor Deaton progressing?”

Derek could hear the mac n’ cheese congealing on his tray.

“Slowly but surely,” he responded.

“I’m glad to hear it,” she assured him. Derek’s hopes of a short conversation were quickly withering away. “I wanted to discuss with you your current status within our facility. You are unbonded, are you not?”

His vision seared red, his heart leaping in his throat as if to escape. His claws darted out, scraping across the tray, before he managed a sharp breath and wrestled back under control. 

“I am unbonded,” he gritted out, “but it is not under discussion.”

Morrell’s expression only hardened, seemingly unconcerned with the wolf riding close to the surface. 

“I think it’s time to revisit,” she argued.

“Why?” He snapped.

“Because,” she explained, her voice so placid that Derek wanted to shatter it, “you are an unbonded Guide in the middle of the NFEH. We train Sentinels to control their instincts, but for some, having an unbonded Guide at the height of their maturity would strain their control.”

His teeth felt too large for his mouth. “So, you’re blaming the victim?”

“I’m being practical,” she countered. “Having a Sentinel would improve your own abilities, as a Guide as well as a werewolf. I know that you’ve been having difficulty at the SRC, and this could really help you.”

“I don’t want it.” The truth of it burned on his tongue. “I don’t want any of it.”

Morrell looked sympathetic, and Derek resisted to urge to gnash his teeth. “I know what happened with your family was traumatic. To suddenly shift in the midst of the fire, to know what was happening to your family, to your _pack_ -”

White noise swam in his head, his nerves soaked in restless buzzing as he turned, shoving his tray on an empty table. He could hear Morrell calling out after him, but he didn’t look back, just barely kept from running out of the building with his fangs bared. Instead, he marched through the corridors, refusing to stop until he was at the gym, already closed for the lunch hour. He pushed the door open, ignoring the snap of the bolt in the lock as he slipped inside. The room was dark, his breaths echoing off the mirrored walls and shadowed equipment. The quiet soaked into his skin, his heartbeat stuttering into slowness. 

He took in a deep breath. Old sweat and silence sat on his tongue. The taste was familiar, safe, and it helped the last of his muscles to relax, his fight or flight response smoothing away with each exhale. It was only on his third breath that he noticed it, a different taste in the air. It was almost nothing, like trying to pull out a single grain of salt from the sea, but it was warm and spiced and Derek found that spark of curiosity welling up once again.

He walked further into the gym, following that speck of smell/taste before stopping in front of a punching bag. The scent was stronger here, smelling of rain and earthy tea and cinnamon. Reaching out a hand, he slid his fingers down the leather, catching on the seam. It didn’t even occur to him not to taste, his tongue slick against the pad of his thumb. That warm spice was stronger, hot on his tastebuds. His eyes fluttered close as his sucked his fingertip into his mouth.

The sharp moan rumbling in his chest jerked him into awareness, stumbling back as if struck. Derek stared at his spit-slick fingers, his tongue catching his bottom lip against his will. His hand was shaking. Somewhere, deep in the warm-dark core of him, he felt something turn sharp, heated. For the first time, Derek felt _hungry_.

He ran out of the gym, the door slamming behind him. Morrell was in the hallway, having finally caught up to him, but he couldn’t stop, refused to stop. If he did, she would know that gnawing beginning to crawl up his veins, an emptiness he had never felt before beginning to chew at the pit of his stomach. He hurried to the SRC, barely able to keep the door from slamming open. Deaton’s head jerked up, eyes wide.

“Derek? Aren’t you at lunch?”

“I have to go,” Derek blurted out, utterly grateful that he hadn’t remembered to put his stuff in a locker today. He scooped everything up into his arms in a messy bundle.

“What happened?” Deaton edged closer.

Swiping his key card, Derek only managed to say, “I’m sorry,” before shoving his way out the doors.

It’s only when he was in the Camaro, pushing past the speed limit on the remote roads crawling through the woods, autumn wind slapping him in the face, that the taste on his tongue finally faded and he was able to breathe again. He pulled off to the side, turning the engine off and resting his forehead against the steering wheel. He knew he might not be able to run again, being a werewolf taught him that. He could outrun prey and predator, but he couldn’t outrun instinct. The moon would always be in his blood and the warm-dark core of him would always mark him as Guide.

The drive home wasn’t nearly as reckless, a meandering pace that kept his heart rate steady as he pulled into his apartment complex. Artemis was waiting at the door for him, already curling around his ankles. Her chirps followed him into the kitchen as he prepared her dinner, the small cat hopping onto the counter as if he hadn’t warned her off it since she was no more than a kitten. Derek let her eat, tossing his bundle of stuff onto the couch before slumping next to it. His head felt too heavy, his senses dulled. Even Artie curling onto his lap in a white ball of fur didn’t help him fully relax, though it was close enough to count.

Unable to contemplate cooking tonight, Derek made a call to the local Thai place, hanging up the phone before laying his head back. The ceiling offered no answers, but he already knew the one he was dreading.

Somewhere in Beacon Hills was an unbonded Sentinel, and that Sentinel was made for him.


	4. Ghosts Come to Play

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> TW: graphic images of a murdered person

Placing his desk phone to his ear, Stiles could already feel bile beginning to slick the back of his throat.

“Where?” He asked. He jotted down the answer on a sticky note. “We’ll be there in thirty.”

As he hung up the phone, he refused to notice the way his hand trembled. His fingers curled into a fist.

Erica tilted her head at him from the opposite desk, already on alert. “What’s up?”

Even after two years, it was hard for Stiles to believe that Erica Reyes had ended up as his partner. They had both been at the Academy together, sniping at each other during weapons training and over history reports. Their rapport hadn’t improved when both of them had decided to join the police force, or even when Erica and Scott fell in together as a pseudo-pack. Naturally competitive as Sentinels are, the two of them seemed to thrive on rivalry and sarcasm. Even so, when Erica had been promoted to detective two years ago, it was without hesitation that Stiles had requested her as his partner. Sometimes, it was good to have your dad running the police department. Most of the time, it was just incredibly embarrassing.

Having Erica as his backup more than made up for it. She had bonded with her best friend, Vernon Boyd, a little over a year ago, a strong-but-silent Guide whose primary mode of communication was bulky shoulder shrugs and eye-rolls. Seriously, Stiles had seen statues more emotive. But, Boyd had helped even out Erica’s more volatile nature, and in turn that made her an even more stellar detective. Maybe not quite as good as Stiles, but he might be biased.

Right now, however, he wasn’t in the mood for their usual banter. 

“We have another one,” he finally answered.

Seeing the color drain from Erica’s face certainly reflected his own. Silently, they packed up their gear and headed out of the station. The crime scene was on the outskirts of the reserve, stumbled upon by a couple of evening hikers. As Stiles and Erica pulled up, the forest was already smeared in red and blue lights, crime scene tape marking off the area.

Stiles parked the car and the two of them got out. The crime scene tech waved them over, signing them in before they stepped beneath the yellow tape. Already, Stiles could smell the blood, a suffocating press of salt and iron in the air. Ignoring it, he and Erica went further into the trees to where a circle of crime scene techs and the medical examiner were huddled.

“Detectives,” Doctor Hilliard greeted. The lines around her eyes seemed drawn in black. “It looks like we have another one.”

“Yeah,” Stiles murmured. “It certainly does.”

The girl was on her back, staring up at the canopy of trees blocking the stars. Her eyes were blue and flecked with petechial hemorrhaging. Her cheek was covered in freckles and blood splatter, her throat slit open like a gaping smile. The cut away tatters of her cartoon t-shirt was scattered on the forest floor, and the symbol carved into her torso was precise and clean. Five interlocking circles, looping up between her breasts and ending just above her bellybutton. The cuts were clean against her skin; she had bled out before the symbol had been carved into her.

Despite all the blood in the air, Stiles could smell the dead girl’s tears.

“Her name is Emily Masters,” Doctor Hilliard explained, gesturing to a tech behind her who was labeling an evidence bag with a wallet inside. “Just seventeen years old. Dammit.”

“And?” Erica pressed further.

Doctor Hilliard nodded. “Yes, she was a registered Guide. Just a year shy of graduation from the Academy.”

Stiles’ eyes fluttered close, just for a second, just enough so he could ignore the echoes of Emily’s screams still lingering in the wind. He opened his eyes. “Time of death?”

“I can’t say for sure without an autopsy,” Doctor Hilliard continued, “but rigor has barely begun to set in. I’d say she’s been here for three hours, no more than four.”

That put estimated time of death around four o’clock that afternoon. Stiles looked into the dead Guide’s face, pieces already forming in his mind and waiting to be put together. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Erica’s nostrils flare imperceptibly, her eyes flash amber.

“All scents here are accounted for,” she reported a second later. “There’s no scents here other than our guys and the vic. Perp knew how to cover his tracks.”

“Even from a werewolf?” Stiles’ mouth pulled down into a frown. “That’s not good.”

Erica shook her head. “This is the second one, Stiles,” she said. “Same symbol, same evidence of asphyxiation, same throat-cutting, same remote location. Two Guides butchered in less than a month.”

“Yeah.” His fingers twitched; he itched for a cigarette. “If we get ourselves a third, we’ll have ourselves an old-fashioned serial killer.”

“Who targets Guides.”

Silence fell over them, the weight of that knowledge already bearing down on their shoulders. Murder was always a terrible thing, serial murder even worse. But, to have someone specifically targeting Guides? It was blasphemy. Even worse, for someone to be able to mask their intentions from an empath, even a young one…

_This was going to get a lot worse_ , Stiles thought to himself as he leaned against the brick wall of the station, releasing the smoke from his lungs in a weary exhale. Erica was inside, already writing up her report. Stiles knew he should be doing the same, but every time he swallowed he could taste the Guide’s blood. He brought his cigarette to his mouth for another deep inhale, letting the tobacco-smoke-nicotine linger on his tongue and coat the back of his throat. It was almost enough.

Beacon Hills, for all that it was central point for the EHC-West (Enhanced Humanity Community), was not a hotbed of criminal activity. Certainly, a few Sentinels would take adolescent trouble-making to a whole new level, but other than the occasional domestic and drug bust, it was a quiet town. The high prevalence of Guides and Sentinels in the local population helped to keep crime down, and having an Enhanced task force in the police department also played its part. Stiles’ job mainly consisted of putting away the drunk and disorderly or snarling at abusive partners finally entering the system.

A serial killer was a different story. Stiles may not have had much experience in more crime-ridden areas, but he was a stickler for research. His master’s degree in forensic psychology had pushed him to an early promotion, and it was even more formidable when that knowledge was paired with a Sentinel’s abilities. 

The first murder had been three weeks ago, a graduate student named Heather Morris. Stiles had known her growing up, before his mother had died and Heather had moved away. He hadn’t even known she was back in town until the call came in. The body had been found on the outskirts of the warehouse district, in an alley underneath the highway. It was the same petechial hemorrhaging, the neatly slit throat, the five circles incised into the chest. The blood-spattered face of his old childhood friend had haunted his nights, a week of nightmares that had him slamming upright with his heart racing in his throat. They had hoped it was a one-off, trying to follow what little evidence, thinking it was some sort of cult or strange act of revenge.

With Emily Masters, it was becoming clear that the killer was just getting starting.

Already, the cases were proving to be difficult. Even with his sensitivity, Stiles had yet to detect a suspicious scent at either crime scene. This was the man who could smell the bacon on his dad’s breath in the parking lot of the station. It was as if the air was wiped clean with bleach. Whoever this killer was, it was entirely likely they were used to dealing with enhanced humans. Or, very possibly, were enhanced themselves.

_A Sentinel serial killer_. Stiles shuddered at the thought, taking another drag of his cigarette.

The worst of it were the targets. Guides, even to typicals, were practically revered. They were the ones who rescued puppies and taught kindergarten and could convince someone to step away from a ledge with a smile and a reaching hand. Killing a Guide was unconscionable; the thought alone had Stiles’ stomach knotted in disgust. And, the blasphemy that was a Sentinel killing Guides?

Stiles’ tossed the cigarette to the ground, crushing it under his shoe. He licked his lips and tasted blood again.

“Shit,” he muttered, raking his fingers through his hair. “Shit.”

His sleep that night was restless, filled with images of blood and circles and twisting woods. When he woke that morning it was with sharp relief. Stiles moved through his morning by rote, starting with his usual three mile circuit through the park. He flipped on the coffee machine as he made his way to the shower, letting the warm water run over him like a baptism. Sipping his coffee, he let himself dry in his kitchen, watching the sunlight smear across the walls. His apartment wasn’t much, the kind of place people call “vintage” but is really just old, but it was his, and that was what mattered. As much as Stiles enjoyed the company of others, his ADHD manifesting into the need for constant stimulation, he was rather reluctant to let others into his space. He guarded it zealously, carving out just a small corner where he could be utterly alone without other people’s worries and sympathies and “you’re still not bonded?”

It wasn’t even eight when Stiles decided to be productive, shucking himself into a pair of worn jeans and a Violent Femmes tee-shirt that was soft from years of washing. Scraping his nails through his hair, as if that would give it some semblance of order, Stiles made his way to his Jeep outside. It was a short drive to the NFEH, and he was still singing along to the radio when he pulled up to the large, white building. The SRC was located at the center of the medical ward, and Stiles nodded at the receptionist before sweeping his way inside.

Doctor Deaton’s head turned at his approach, perched at one of his patient’s bedside. “Good morning, Sentinel Stilinski.”

“Hey, Deaton,” Stiles greeted, trying not to flinch at the title. It was considered common courtesy to address the enhanced as Sentinel or Guide, but Stiles still found it unerringly creepy. Even though he could smell that jasmine perfume of his banshee best friend, he figured he could still manage being polite. “Lydia here?”

Deaton smiled, the empath fully aware the question was only for show. “She’s four beds down and to the left.”

Nodding, Stiles followed his instructions, making his way into the Center. His steps faltered for only a second, picking up the sounds of a second heartbeat, a voice rough-hewn from disuse. Breathing in, he smelled the mixed scent of a successful bond. It was enough to make him smile.

When he turned to the fourth bed, he wasn’t surprised to see Jackson upright and awake, though his complexion was still sickly pale. Lydia’s hand was interlaced with his.

“What’s this asshole doing here?” Jackson complained, but it was weak enough not to mean anything.

“Hello to you too, Jackson,” Stiles smirked. “It seems that your terrible personality is still intact.”

Lydia rolled her eyes at them, obviously well-used to such an exchange. 

“Jackson surfaced late last night,” she explained. “He’s still in recovery, Stiles, which means you have to refrain from being an ass.”

Stiles grinned, tilting his hips. “But, it’s my best feature!”

Even Jackson managed a chuckle. “Whatever, Stilinski.” His hand curled tighter around Lydia’s. “I - I’m told I have something to thank you for.”

Stiles said nothing, happy to breathe in the scent of their bond. “It depends. Will pie be involved?”

Jackson rolled his eyes, but his mouth was serious. “Don’t make this harder than it already is, dork.” 

Sighing, Stiles moved closer, clapping a gentle hand on Jackson’s shoulder.

“Dude, it’s cool,” he insisted. “I just knew that… I just knew, okay?”

“It’s true,” Lydia agreed. She was radiant against the dull backdrop of the medical center, effervescent even as she maintained her composure. “It was Stiles’ suggestion. Sometimes, he’s nearly as good a Guide as I am.”

“High praise, indeed.” Deaton’s voice broke over them, redirecting their attention. “Jackson’s recovery is proceeding at quite the pace, considering his previous condition. You have excellent instincts, Sentinel.”

Something squirmed inside his stomach.

“Lydia was the one that did all the work,” he said. “I’m just the sap who hates sad endings.”

The look Deaton gave him was silent and saw right through his bullshit. It was always a bad idea to lie around empaths. “I believe Guide Morrell is overseeing your interview process.”

Stiles’ teeth gnashed together; he forced his jaw to relax. “She arranges interviews for me, yes.”

“Interesting.” That was the last thing Deaton said before taking his leave. It was enough to have Stiles bristling in irritation, his brow furrowing.

“Well,” he forced a grin, “I’m gonna leave you two alone. Jackson, good to see your douchey face. Lydia, a pleasure, as always.”

“See you later, dork,” Jackson offered, but his smile was genuine.

Lydia stood and hugged him tight, which Stiles was happy to reciprocate. “Take care of yourself,” she whispered, before patting him on the cheek.

“I will,” he promised.

As he walked out of the ward, Stiles did his best to avoid Deaton’s gaze, as unsettling and all-knowing as ever. He slid out the door and back into the halls, shoving his hand into his pockets. He blamed his wandering focus for the broad shoulder that collided with his, his feet stumbling from the impact.

“Sorry,” he muttered, but the guy was already gone. He rubbed his shoulder, making a face at the place of impact, when his senses suddenly sharpened, narrowing in on the scent he was rubbing between his fingertips. He lifted his hand, breathing in.

Forest and dark roast coffee.

Stiles whirled around to see blue-scrubbed shoulders and dark hair disappear into the SRC before the glass doors firmly shut.


	5. Silent Screams

Avoiding Doctor Morrell was tricky business, because the Guide was a bloodhound when it came to the interview process. Derek had managed to evade her capture, sinking behind some Academy students rife with teenage pheromones that were sure to distract even the most sensitive empath. Once her back was turned, Derek had slipped into the medical unit and away from her laser-like vision.

So focused on his escape, Derek had careened straight into someone walking in the opposite direction. It was almost enough to break his stride, but his balance kicked in and he was inside the SRC without a backwards glance.

Which he immediately regretted because once the doors were shut he was bombarded with that taste he was trying so hard to forget still lingering in the air. His tongue swiped across his lips; cinnamon burst across his tongue.

Goddammit.

“Good morning, Derek,” Deaton greeted. His face was serene as ever, but Derek was able to scent just a spark of excitement igniting from him.

“Morning,” he allowed, swallowing down any trace of tea-spice-rain before grabbing his clipboard. Refusing to make small talk, he began his rounds, checking the vitals of each patient. He was halfway through his rounds, his glowering concentration wholly focused on his task, when he smelled that familiar scent of expensive shampoo and jasmine. When he looked over, he froze in surprise to see Lydia Martin beside a fully awake and recovering Jackson Whittemore.

Derek glanced at Deaton, who was smiling at him, then back at the bonded pair (the bond was strong and sure and he could feel it resonate in the pit of his stomach even if he couldn’t quite believe it), then back at Deaton. “When did this happen?”

Heels clicked on the tile floor as Lydia stood up, once again tossing her hair as if it were a call to battle. 

“Jackson surfaced last night,” she informed him. “We rebonded almost immediately.”

While Derek wasn’t known for being verbose, it wasn’t often that he couldn’t find any words. “But, how?”

Lydia rolled her eyes; it was a familiar gesture. “Because, I’m a damn good Guide and Jackson, despite evidence to the contrary, isn’t a complete idiot.”

“Thanks, babe,” Jackson snorted.

Derek took another step forward and shuddered to a stop as that taste/smell was even heavier here. It was swept faintly over Jackson but Lydia was smeared in it, and it was enough to set Derek’s teeth on edge. He clenched his jaw, forced his fangs to recede. He would not get into a territorial spat over some unknown Sentinel, no matter how good that taste was.

Christ, he needed to get laid.

“I’m glad that you’re recovering, Mister Whittemore,” Derek finally answered (he wasn’t completely hopeless at social interaction, just mostly didn’t give a shit). “And, congratulations to you both. May your bond never break.”

Lydia merely raised a perfect brow at him rather than murder him with her pointy shoes, so he considered it a win. He moved on to the rest of the patients, recording their vitals (he had to do a new CBC for Mariam Hassar and a BMP for whatever-his-name-is Greenberg) and firmly ignoring how his mouth watered whenever he breathed too deeply. It was with a sigh of relief when he left the SRC to grab some lactated ringers from the pharmacy, the air outside the ward clean on his tongue.

The rest of the day proceeded without much fanfare, much to Derek’s relief. No more stomach-churning, toe-curling smells, no snippy redheads with winged eyeliner sharp enough to cut his throat, no run-ins with the ever-persistent Doctor Morrell. Even Laura had neglected to call him and remind him about his failings as a human being. He could almost call it a good day, except that Derek didn’t have good days and didn’t know what to do with them.

The drive home was quietly content, as Maria Peszek sang her secrets- _wiem jak umrę i z kim, wielka woda i siwy dym_ ( _I know how to die with whom, great water and gray smoke_ ). The gas light had been flashing since the night before, so Derek pulled into the closest gas station. Just on the outskirts of the preserve, the gas station was well-lit but entirely empty but for single spotted teenager manning the cash register inside the convenience store. Derek hummed underneath his breath- _była sobie dziewczyna, najsmutniejsza dziewczyna na świecie_ -pulling the gas handle with a click once the tank was filled.

The wind changed direction, and the scent of decaying flesh was heavy in the air.

Derek immediately turned around, staring into the darkening woods, his eyes chasing the last bit of light as it sank beneath the trees. The lights of the gas station began to flicker above him; the smell of rotting meat was thick in the back of his throat. His eyes flashed red, but he remained human, watching the world become still, tracing any movement from the corner of his eyes.

There was one charged moment of instinct, a flashing light in the back of of mind, and Derek found himself thrown across the lot. He scraped along the concrete, his leather jacket protecting him from any damage. A shadow dipped out of sight; the gas station was now plunged in twilight as flecks of thin glass showered around him. Derek smelled the movement before it happened and was on his feet in an instant, catching the shadow and shoving it into the gas pump. There was a sharp screech, and Derek caught only a glimpse of a mangled face before he found his chest bombarded with poison. The warm-dark core of him was soaked in vitriol, a hateful eddy that was threatening to pull him under.

He flung himself backwards, the riot of emotions splintering his ribs, when the creature attacked again. They tumbled to the ground, Derek pinned beneath dark limbs and a torn-open face, hands pressing down on his chest that was overflowing with hatred-bile-fury-guilt.

“So much guilt,” the creature gnashed, in a language beyond language but somehow Derek understood. “Delicious.”

Fire flickered behind Derek’s closed eyes, the smell of smoke choking him.

“You will be the third.” The creature traced circles on his sternum. “I will bleed you dry and you will open for me, like the whore Guides before you.”

The words shot through his daze like a bullet. The shift rippled through him, mouth suddenly full of teeth and knuckles crunched into claws. He felt the surprise resonate in the creature just as he threw it off him, watched it crash into the convenience store wall, brick smashing at the impact. Derek leapt to his feet and roared, eyes burning and teeth bared.

The creature’s head tilted, the torn flesh of its face twisting into a sneer. 

“A werewolf,” it hissed. “A werewolf and a Guide.”

Somewhere in the distance, sirens were sounding; the kid at the register must have called the police.

“I’m not done with you,” the creature gnashed. “I will tear you open and drown in your blood and devour that which makes you Guide. Only then will I be done with you.”

Before Derek could attack, the creature was gone, disappearing into the darkness as if born from it. The sirens were closer now, lights beginning to wash over the nearby road, and Derek sank against his car. His gut was still roiling, the warm-dark core of him shivering in violation. He let the wolf recede on a shuddering breath. It was with hesitation that he let the police approach him, the light from their flashlights sharp in his eyes, and with greater reluctance that he let the EMT’s check him for injury (not that there would be any).

“We would like you to come down to the station,” they asked. “For your statement”

He wanted to say no. He wanted to get in his car and drive to his apartment and scoop up Artie and lie on his bed until he couldn’t smell smoke anymore. He wanted to call Laura, actually call Laura, and hear her rail on his numerous inadequacies because his sister was at least alive to do so. He wanted the last sixteen years to unravel until he was fifteen again and never look at Kate Argent once and to have his family breathing.

“Yeah, I can do that,” he said.

They let him drive to the station, one cop car in front and behind him, and it felt like being boxed in. The claustrophobia didn’t relent when he exited the car and walks into the station. White noise flooded his ears, his footsteps like some faraway echo. They led him into an interrogation room, and Derek stared into the two-way mirror as if he could see through it.

He could hear the conversations on the other side of the wall, but he ignored them, instead looking into his center. The warm darkness was beginning to settle, the poison from before slowly seeping from his system like a bleeding wound. He pressed his hand to his chest, sinking lower into his lungs, for the first time using his abilities on himself. Derek felt the webs from the attack dissipate underneath his palm, and he releases a heavy breath.

“Derek.”

He looked up and into flashing amber eyes.

“Erica.”

The blonde pursed her mouth, adjusting her holster in a rare fit of nerves. Derek, being a former Beacon Hills resident and born werewolf, was aware of the other werewolves in town. While Derek may have been Alpha to his sister’s Beta, it had been such a shock that Laura had only managed a few years before pushing him away, chafing beneath the bonds of a pack that should have been hers to lead. Derek had allowed himself to be pushed all the way back to Beacon Hills. He had never sought out a new pack, in fact had turned down many offers until they had dwindled to none, and Erica had been one of the few he had actually considered. Watching her gaze drift over him, calculating, he wondered if he made a mistake in refusing her offer.

“We’re just waiting for my partner before we begin,” she explained, the consummate professional.

Derek nodded. “I didn’t realize you were a detective. I knew you were on the force.”

She let a genuine smile slip through. “I was promoted last year,” she explained. “It still hasn’t quite sunk in.”

“How’s it treating you?”

“Some days are better than others,” she admitted. She bit her bottom lip. “Not so much better as of late.”

Derek could smell the worry leaking through her, the pulse of fear that swam beneath it. Tentatively, he reached out from the darkness, brushing just tendrils of his empathic ability along her surface. Images flashed in his mind: circles carved in flesh, wide, blank eyes, blood soaking the ground. He shook his head, dispersing the images like dust on the wind.

“I’ve been told you want my statement,” Derek conceded.

“It’s standard procedure,” Erica explained. “We just want to have the facts down on paper so we can prevent such a thing from happening again.”

Derek knew she wasn’t talking about his attack, but the murders in her mind.

“Anything I can do to help.” He meant it.

There was movement behind the door and the trill of bright laughter, and Derek found his chest warming at the sound. He frowned, shifting in his chair. Curious, he stretched a empathic tendril towards the source. When he made contact, he couldn’t help the growl ripping through his throat, his claws scraping the table.

“Derek?”

Erica’s concerned voice was underwater, Derek’s entire focus poised on the now silent person behind the door. Someone else’s heartbeat was ringing in his ears, all at once comforting and terrifying. He could sense the the brightness that marked the center of every Sentinel radiating even as his eyes slammed shut. Derek had never liked looking into Sentinels, the blinding whiteness too much for his senses, but this Sentinel was different. The light was like the sun at dusk, a coppery twilight that felt like _rest_ and _home_.

“Derek?” Erica reached out a hand and Derek couldn’t help the instant recoil, all his senses screaming that she was _wrong_ , that she wasn’t _his_ Sentinel. The wrongness of it wrung through his bones, growls dragging out of his mouth. Somewhere a door slammed open, and Derek was immersed in the scent of rain and spice and earthy green tea and it was like a comforting hand stroking between his shoulder blades. The wolf receded beneath his skin, instantly soothed. He blinked his once-again green eyes open, and Derek saw his Sentinel for the first time.


	6. Losing Breath

“Si, Señor Sheriff?”

Stiles’ dad rolled his eyes without even looking up, finishing the notation on his desk. “You don’t even speak Spanish.”

“I could if I wanted to.”

“If being the key word.”

Stiles leaned more fully against the doorway, taking his turn to roll his eyes. “Ye of little faith, father of mine.”

His dad finally looked up from the report, shooting Stiles a knowing look just above the rim of his glasses. “It’s not a question of faith if there’s a lack of evidence.”

With a dramatic gasp, Stiles clutched at his shirt just over his heart. “E tu, Padre?”

That earned him a small smile. “I don’t know what I did to deserve you as a son.”

“Something awesome, obviously,” Stiles quipped. He tugged at the knot of his much-hated (and annoyingly required) tie. “So, what’s up?”

That small smile dissipated in an instant.

“We responded to an assault in progress earlier,” the Sheriff explained. “Out at the Quik & Go by the preserve. Kid at the register called it in, said that all the lights went out and a ‘creepy black monster’ attacked the man at the gas pump. The victim was able to fight off the assailant, and the attacker fled once it heard sirens. I figured I’d give you full reign.”

Stiles pursed his mouth in confusion. “Why? I’m sorta in the middle of a murder investigation. Two actually.”

His dad’s jaw tightened, his gaze pointed. “Because the man attacked is a Guide.”

A cold feeling swept through the pit of Stiles’ stomach, and he immediately straightened. His gaze became laser-focused, any twitching stuttering to a halt. “Is the description reliable?”

The Sheriff shrugged. “All the lights blew out at the same time, same with the security system. Kid was thoroughly rattled and hid behind the counter for most the the incident.”

Stiles nodded, his mind already conjuring the gas station layout, mentally noting the position of cameras and lights.

“A power surge could explain it,” he allowed, “if there were records of something of that nature in the area.”

“We called the power company,” the Sheriff continued. “No records for any surges or blackouts in the quadrant, much less in that area.”

“It’s enough to confirm some sort of supernatural interference,” Stiles concluded. His fingers found their way to his mouth, tapping on his bottom lip. “What about the victim?”

The Sheriff picked up a thin folder, tossing it to the edge of the desk. Wandering closer, Stiles saw the name at the top of the file and his stomach immediately plummeted.

“Shit.”

“Yeah,” his dad agreed. “We got ourselves another attack on a Hale.”

The Hales were something of an urban legend in Beacon Hills. Years ago, they were just another family in the neighborhood. Even as the prominent, local werewolf pack, the Hales were embedded into the community, holding potlucks and part of the PTA and visiting their kids baseball games and orchestra recitals. Then, fourteen years ago, the entire Hale family was killed when their home burned down. Only three had survived. Derek and Laura had been at a school function, and it was whispered legend that Derek had collapsed to his knees, his shift to a Guide corresponding with the screams of his family as they burned alive. The kid had been carried out by paramedics, blue eyes bleeding into red. Only Peter had managed to crawl out from the wreckage, but was too damaged to recover, dying a few weeks later.

Derek and Laura had left soon after, leaving a trail of smoke in their wake. When the rogue Alpha had descended upon Beacon Hills in Stiles’ sophomore year, it had heralded the arrival of the Argents, a family of werewolf bounty hunters. The investigation into the Hale fire was suddenly reopened, and all evidence pointed to Kate Argent, the beautifully vicious sister of Chris Argent and Allison’s aunt. The arrest had made national news, videos of Kate being pulled into the courthouse in handcuffs, raving about the rabid beasts that needed to be put down. 

Allison had refused to mention Kate’s name ever since.

The arrest wasn’t enough to bring the Hales back to Beacon Hills. Eight years had passed and, from last Stiles heard, they had relocated to New York City, doing whatever it was they were doing. About six months ago, word was that the brother, Derek, had returned. Stiles hadn’t seen him around town, but every once in awhile he caught a glimpse of the gorgeous black Camaro that screamed angst-filled creature of the night. Not that Stiles was entirely certain about the angst, but from what the ladies down at the laundromat had said about Hale’s eyebrows, he was pretty sure of his characterization.

Stiles fingered the edge of the file before pulling it open. Inside were the bare bones of the original arson case, a picture of the Hale house in the aftermath of the fire, as well as a family photo of the Hale family. Circled in red pen was a fifteen or sixteen year old boy with dark hair and a rabbit-toothed grin. Stiles found his hand lingering over it; he shoved his hand in his pocket.

“Where’s Hale now?” He asked.

The Sheriff gestured over his shoulder.

“We brought him in for a statement,” he explained. “Erica’s with him now.”

Stiles limbs finally loosened as he whined, “ _Daaaad_. Why did you give it to Erica first?”

“Probably because she was here when Hale arrived and you were out smoking those cigarettes I’m not supposed to know about.”

And, that was his cue. “Uhh, yeah, so I’m gonna go do some fine police work now.”

“You do that.”

Preparing himself mentally for the lecture he was bound to hear later, Stiles made his way through the station. The interrogation rooms were in the back behind the main offices, and he could already catch a glimpse of Erica’s blonde mane through the window. He entered the outer room, where he could catch a glimpse at the mysterious Hale.

Which is probably what Parrish was doing.

“Are you seriously drooling?”

Parrish gave him a roguish wink. “Have you seen Hale? Dude, I’m straight, and he’s made me curious.”

Giving the officer a skeptic brow raise, Stiles finally turned his attention to what was happening in the room. His mouth went immediately dry.

“See?” Parrish nudged him. “I told you.”

Derek Hale as a teenager had been awkwardly adorable. Derek Hale as a man was a testament that there was a God and that He wanted the world to be happy. From chiseled jaw line, dark stubble, and eyes like chips of green ice, Derek had a face that would make angels throw over their vows of chastity. Right now it was furrowed in a glower, but it didn’t seem to detract from the overall aesthetic. Plus, that leather jacket was doing nothing to hide the broad shoulders, and even the dark cotton henley was clinging to what was likely a beautifully sculpted chest. 

Stiles swallowed audibly. “Guh.”

“I know, right?”

Erica and Derek were talking, but the intercom wasn’t on, so Stiles was left reading Derek’s lips as they moved. Not that he could translate a word he was saying, but they sure were pretty.

“Jesus,” Stiles muttered, “I’m gonna have to be a goddamn professional.”

“You could professionally ask for his number.”

“Pretty sure that’s an ethical violation.”

“Pretty sure not tapping that is an ethical violation.”

Stiles let loose a bright burst of laughter. “I don’t think the sheriff will agree.”

Parrish punched him in the shoulder, grinning, before heading out of the room. “Seriously, Stilinski, I’m a straight man questioning.”

“Go home to your girlfriend, you dick,” Stiles shouted after him.

He was still smiling when he first felt it, the soft warmth of a Guide’s power flickering over him. Frowning, Stiles could sense its hesitation before it gently brushed against the bright-white center of what made him a Sentinel. The shock of it nearly doubled him over, his hand gripping his chest. An echo effect tripped through him, reverberating in his bones, and he couldn’t hold back the whimper as the Guide’s touch snapped backwards. He managed to look up and watched as Derek’s eyes flashed feral red, his claws tearing through the table top. Erica was obviously freaking out, and Stiles watched her hand reach out towards Derek’s shoulder. Something sharp raked through him (the thought of that hand touching _his Guide_ ), raging at the violation, shrieking when he saw Derek flinch.

With a growl, he slammed the interrogation room door open, chest heaving and fists bared like claws. Derek’s eyes snapped open, and Stiles was overcome with that smell that had haunted him for days--coffee/forest/storm--and his mouth was watering with the potency of it. The warm darkness he had barely felt before was suddenly blown wide, and it wasn’t the terrifying black hole that he’d always felt in the presence of other Guides. It was like the shadows of a wooded hollow, a summer night crowded with fireflies. Stiles had never felt anything so intoxicating, wanted to dive in it, swallow it whole until he was entirely consumed-

A bolt of realization cut through the haze, and Stiles took a big step backwards.

“Mister Hale,” he managed.

Derek was breathing ragged but was firmly human again and looking pointedly away from Stiles. “That’s me.”

“I’m Detective Stilinski, Erica’s partner.” Stiles’ voice remained steady, even as his instincts railed against him. “We’ve asked you here to gather an official statement on the attack that occurred earlier this evening.”

Derek nodded, his composure sliding into place like steel, jaw clenched and brows furrowed. “Whatever you need, Detective.”

Erica was looking between the two of them, eyes wide and mouth gaping. Stiles cut a glance at her. 

“Detective Reyes, if you’ll begin.”

She stared at him like he’d just asked her to murder a basket of puppies, but was able to snap her mouth shut.

“Yeah, sure,” she answered, even as she took a rather large step away from Derek, and Stiles hated the way that made him feel better. “Mister Hale, if you could start at the beginning.”

“I stopped for some gas at the station by the preserve,” Derek began, though his words sounded like he was chewing glass. “I had just gotten off my shift at the Sentinel Rehabilitation Center; I’m a physician's assistant.”

Which explained why Stiles had crashed into that scent when visiting Jackson and Lydia.

“What happened next?” Stiles prompted.

Derek’s gaze suddenly caught his own, and it made Stiles want to simultaneously crush Derek against him and run away screaming. “I noticed a strange scent on the wind, like rotting meat. A moment later, all the lights went out, and I was thrown in the air.”

Erica made a sharp sound. “It would take some might to knock a werewolf off its feet.”

That had Stiles’ spine snapping further upright. Derek was firmly not looking at him again, but Stiles could catch flickers of crimson. His Guide--no--this Guide was also a werewolf. And not just a werewolf, but an Alpha. He had all the extended senses and pronounced strength that a Sentinel had, maybe even more. The thought that the Guide in front of him could possibly overpower him had heat sweeping up the back of his neck.

“When it charged me again, it managed to get me on my back,” he continued. “I was about to throw it off me when it attacked me again, but not physically.”

“What do you mean?” Stiles questioned, unable to stop himself from leaning forward.

Derek frowned even further, if that was possible.

“It corrupted the empathic connection,” he answered. “All Guides are connected to the people around them, even if it’s just surface level. This--whatever it is--was able to latch onto that and poisoned it. All I could feel was rage and hatred and guilt. I’ve never experienced anything like it.”

“Then, what happened?”

“It said to me that I would be the third.” Derek’s face seemed carved from stone. “That it would ‘bleed me dry.’ That snapped me out of it, and I shifted. It didn’t seem to know that I was a werewolf. After that, I heard the sirens, it threatened to devour what made me a Guide and ran.”

Erica was writing all this down on her notepad, something that Stiles should be doing but he wasn’t sure his fingers were working properly. “Did you get a good look at it?”

Derek gave a curt nod. “Enough of one. I can show you if you like.”

The idea of Derek connecting with him again had his body screaming an emphatic YES. Stiles dug his nails into his palms. “I think it’s best if you show Detective Reyes. Her memory is better than mine.”

It was a terrible lie, and an obvious one at that. Images shared through empathic connection simply weren’t _forgotten_. Derek nodded anyway before shooting a glance at Erica. “You ready?”

Erica was once again looking between the two of them as if she had never seen them before.

“Sure,” she replied. “Connect away.”

Even without the connection aimed at him, Stiles could feel it unfurl across the room, brushing past him and sending electric shocks up his skin. He ignored it in favor of grinding his teeth.

He almost felt lucky a moment later when Erica flinched, her face pursed with revulsion. Whatever had attacked Hale, it hadn’t been aesthetically pleasing. That much was obvious. Erica blinked her eyes, shaking off the connection, and Stiles refused to be pleased by that.

“I think that’s all we need for the moment,” Stiles declared, standing up. He felt Derek’s gaze follow him like a trail of heat. “We’ll let you know if we have any further questions. Thank you for your cooperation.”

Derek nodded, eyes the color of the sea (no, the sky after a storm, or was it like an oil slick catching color in the sun?) meeting his, and Stiles all but ran out of the room. Each step was torturous relief, the bright-white center sobbing to return, his common sense begging him to escape. He didn’t stop until he was back outside the station, collapsing against the brick building and gulping down night air. It cooled his blood, soaking into his lungs, and slowly his vision began to clear. His nerves were no longer muddled, honed once more into pinpoint precision. Pulling out a carton, his fingers didn’t even tremble as he shoved a cigarette between his lips.

Taking in a heavy breath, the curling smoke wiped away the last of the forest-coffee scent. Stiles rested his head against the brick, staring up into the star-scattered sky.

He was so fucked.


	7. Midnight Hours

Derek was so fucked.

He left the station in a daze, taking extra slow steps to keep him from sprinting to his car. The drive home was silent, his hands unable to remove themselves from his steering wheel. He barely remembered the drive, much less pulling up the apartment and stumbling inside. Artie was twining around his ankles, and he immediately scooped her up, burying his face into her fur. She purred against his face as he breathed in and out, counting the seconds to stem off a panic attack. When his heart no longer was in danger of bursting through his rib cage, Derek let Artie fall out of his arms. He leaned against the door, skidding down until he could rest his forehead against his knees. Artie nudged him, mewling.

“Sorry, girl,” he murmured. “Give me a second.”

It was a lie (he needed much more than a few seconds), but the cat didn’t have to know.

Nightmares plagued him that night, visions of a mangled face and poison wracking his body, of flames tearing through walls and his family screaming out his name. But, what shot him awake each time, was the hazy images of a long curve of neck dotted with moles and eyes like warm whiskey.

The last thing Derek wanted to do was go back to work. However, the alternative was to wallow in his bed and fight off more dreams, so he scraped himself together and managed to get out the door. When he got to the SRC, Deaton was talking to Lydia, poised as ever, and Jackson, who was on his two feet again and dressed in street clothes.

“Thank you so much for your help, Doctor,” Lydia smiled, the hand gripped in his adorned with a large diamond ring. “I truly am grateful.”

“You are always welcome, Guide,” Deaton answered. He reached out to Jackson. “Take care of yourself, Mister Whittemore.”

“I will,” Jackson promised.

The two of them locked arms and exited the SRC, their bond almost glittering in the space between them. Derek swallowed against the suddenly spike of something beneath his skin, an echo in a hollow space he had never noticed before. He turned away from the door.

“Good morning, Derek.”

He grunted in response, grabbing a chart, hoping Deaton wouldn’t pick up on all the cues he was practically dropping on the floor like confetti.

“You seem rather unsettled this morning.”

No such luck.

“Bad night,” he bit out.

Deaton’s eyes roved over his face, reading him as easily as a children’s book. Instead of saying anything, he just stared at Derek, chipping away at what little defense he had until Derek finally gave in.

“I was attacked last night.”

The shock on Deaton’s face was almost worth it. “Are you alright?”

“Yeah, I’m fine,” he replied. “Had to go to the police station and file a report. It was not pleasant.”

“I can imagine.” The doctor’s eyes narrowed. “There’s something else, isn’t there?”

This conversation was officially over.

“Gotta get to these bed checks,” Derek mumbled, shuffling away to the first patient. Even in the midst of his routine, his muscles going through everything by rote, he could feel the empath’s gaze following him. Memories from the night before welled to the surface, the scent of cinnamon-rain and Detective Stilinski’s clenched jaw, and he viciously shoved those thoughts back into the dark where they belonged. He didn’t need anyone slipping over his surface and seeing them, because he knew exactly what would happen.

It was a terrifying thought.

Rather than go to the cafeteria (and be harassed by Doctor Morrell), Derek decided to take his frustration out at the gym. Every time his fist slammed into the heavy bag, he felt a little more tension twist out of his back. It was, of course, ruined moments later when his brain tried to remember if Detective Stilinski had two or three moles curving down his neck.

_This is bullshit. I’m acting like some bond-desperate teenager._

He finished his workout with the treadmill, running nearly straight uphill at a pace that would kill most Sentinels. His legs burned and his lungs ached and he kept running like he was being chased, trying to sweat out the memory of the night before.

When he finally finished, he could already feel his muscles beginning to repair and his memory was as sharp as ever.

“Hey, Derek!”

Like a literal puppy, Scott McCall bounded over to him, grinning crooked.

“McCall,” he greeted.

“How’ve you been?” The wolf cub asked. “It’s been awhile since we caught up.”

The last time they talked, Scott was not so nonchalantly asking him if he was interested in expanding his pack. Not to usurp his and Laura’s bond, but because, as Scott had so plaintively pointed out, he didn’t want Derek to be _lonely_.

“Things are fine,” Derek offered. “Just fine.”

Scott tilted his head, frowning slightly. “You smell weird.”

“What do you mean weird?” His voice was nearly a squeak.

“Like, bonded almost?” Scott mused, not realizing that he was single-handedly causing Derek to have a panic attack. “But not really. But kinda? Is pre-bonded a thing?”

Anxiety was slowly choking him, and Derek was looking for the exit when Scott tackled him, lit up like it was Christmas.

“Does this mean you’re bonded?! Because that’s awesome, Derek! Being bonded is awesome! Who is it?”

His heart was going to punch right out of his ribcage and into Scott’s stupidly happy face.

“No, I’m not--I’ll never--I can’t--I have to go.”

He practically ran out of the gym, ignoring people’s weird looks. After the quickest shower in history, he headed back up to the SRC, where he finished off his shift getting weird looks from Doctor Deaton. Derek was used to weird looks by now (he’d been getting them for years), but Deaton’s were weirdly knowing and that was just plain unsettling.

Maybe he needed to get out. The full moon was a few days away, and that always quickened his blood, blurring reason and clouding his thoughts. Maybe it was time to get it out, sweat it out, fuck it out.

The nice thing about Jungle was that he didn’t have to wait in line. All he had to do was smile at the bouncer, and suddenly he was inside. Music pounded through his veins; the smell of sweat and alcohol was so pungent he could almost taste it. It had been awhile since he’d been through, but the way the bartender was eying him, he hadn’t been forgotten.

“Well, look who’s here!”

And, just like that, his hopes for the night were dashed.

“Nice to see you, Erica,” he managed to grit out. “Now, if you’ll excuse me-”

She grabbed his arm, nails nearly biting. She smiled, and her eyes flashed gold in the neon lights.

“Nuh uh, none of that, sir.” She smiled like she was about to eat him. “We’ve got a VIP section, and you’re coming with.”

Erica dragged him through the crowd, and they parted for the two of them (all the better to stare). She was wearing painted-on leather pants and black tank top, and Derek almost admired her lack of subtlety. Pulling back a curtain, Derek was yanked into a small VIP room, a small alcove with a few sofas and a table with a two bottles of vodka surrounded by shot glasses. One of them was marked with a purple flower, indicating that it was laced with wolfsbane. It was nearly half empty already, which certainly explained the flush on Erica’s face.

“Everyone, you all know Derek,” Erica introduced, and Derek was suddenly the center of attention. Lydia and Jackson were here, coiled up together like snakes, their smiles sweet and poisonous. Scott waved enthusiastically, his other arm around his Guide (Kira, maybe?). Boyd raised a beer in silent greeting, before turning back to his phone.

Before he could say anything, Erica had shoved him down on a couch and sat nearly on top of him, as if that would keep him from escaping at a moment’s notice.

“Hey, Derek!” Scott cheered. “Glad you could make it!”

Derek frowned further. “I wasn’t invited…”

“Of course, you were,” Erica insisted. She grabbed her martini from the cocktail waitress, thanking her very profusely. “You just didn’t know it.”

“That doesn’t count.”

“It totally counts.”

“Hi, Derek!” The black-haired Guide reached out her hand, smiling sweetly. “I’m Kira. I don’t think we’ve been formally introduced.”

He took it (because he could be polite, dammit). He also noticed her open read as their palms touched, allowing him to take a quick assessment of her--no blocks in place. It set him immediately at ease, and he almost smiled.

“Nice to meet you.”

“So, Derek,” Erica began, tapping her nail on the rim of her glass, “what brings you out to Jungle tonight?”

“I thought I was invited.”

“Shut up and answer the question.”

Derek shrugged, trying to scoot away. Erica followed.

“Same reason you’re here, I suppose,” he allowed, grabbing a shot glass and pouring himself one.

Erica just smiled as he tilted it back. “I’m trying to get fucked.”

Vodka immediately went up his nose. Derek coughed violently, trying to recover with his dignity intact. Of course, if Erica had her way, that wouldn’t be possible.

“I thought you were bonded.”

Erica sighed, long suffering. “Not all bond mates are lovers, Derek. That’s like Sentinels and Guides 101.”

A flash of memory--a pair of amber-colored eyes. He blinked it away.

“So, you and Boyd…?”

“Best friends for life.” She lifted her fist. Boyd pounded it. “Boyd is ace and proud, while I’m bi as fuck and equally as proud. So, while he’s my Guide and always will be, I’m still looking for love in all the best places.”

She leaned forward, and Derek could smell the musky-sweet scent of her. It smelled like friend and pack--he couldn’t smell cinnamon at all.

“And, what about you, Derek?” She asked. “What are you looking for?”

Words welled up in his throat, bulky gravel caught up in the back of his throat. They scraped against his tongue, clicked against his teeth.

He opened his mouth.

“Hey guys!” Stiles Stilinski threw back the curtain, smiling like sunlight and smelling like sex and standing there without any idea that he was ruining Derek’s life.

“What did I miss?’


	8. Lost in the Pages

He must have done something terrible in a past life to deserve this.

The only thing saving Stiles’ sanity was that Jungle was choked with the smell of sweat and cheap booze, heavy enough that the deliciousness that was Derek Hale’s scent was layered beneath. He could still smell it (of course, he could) but the bareness of it allowed him to remain seated next to Kira rather than in Derek’s lap.

His face flushed at the thought; he chased it down with another shot.

“So, Stiles!” Erica crowed, clearly the most evil thing to evil. “We asked Derek to join us. You don’t mind do you?”

“Uhh, it’s fine. Just as long as we don’t talk shop, you know.” He shrugged. “Open case and all.”

Derek was glaring at Erica as if he could shatter her with the power of his eyebrows alone. She only smiled sweetly at him, but Stiles noticed when she ever so slightly tipped her head, baring her throat. Derek’s eyes flashed red before he turned away in a sulk, crossing his arms. Some sort of werewolfy dynamics were obviously at play. Stiles would have to ask Scott about it later.

Or he would if he could remember to stop staring at Derek’s arms, or shoulders, or thighs, or, you know, all of it.

“Ooh!” Kira squealed, catching Stiles’ attention before his pulse could thrum any faster. “I love this song!”

She tugged at Scott’s sleeve, smiling brightly. Scott sighed despairingly, but allowed himself to be dragged to his feet.

“We’ll be back!” He managed before he and Kira were swept into the crowd.

Erica rose to her feet, already swaying. “I think they have the right idea of it.” She held her hand out to Boyd. “May I have this dance?”

He quirked his mouth, nodding. They too disappeared into the masses, leaving Jackson and Lydia, who were coiled around each other like they were newly bonded, and Stiles and Derek trying very hard not to look at each other. Even with the music blaring and his earplugs in (Stiles very much didn’t want to go deaf--sometimes having enhanced senses was a pain in the ass), he could still hear Derek’s heartbeat above the din, a heady drumbeat that skipped whenever they caught eyes. Stiles wondered what Derek could hear, the way his pulse raced--the slick of his tongue when he licked his lips--his nails rasping against his jeans. Stiles knew a thing or two about werewolves (having practically raised Scott from puppyhood and working alongside She-Wolf herself) but he had never met an Alpha before. He couldn’t help his curiosity, the itch of it making words creep up towards his teeth, probably terribly intrusive questions that he really shouldn’t ask a victim of attempted murder.

“So,” he blurted, “come here often?”

Stiles had to stop himself from braining himself on the table. _You just gave Derek Hale the worst pick up line in the history of lines. What is the matter with you?!_

“Uhh.” Stiles glanced up at Derek, who was either chewing on a lemon or supremely uncomfortable. “Not really, no. I was just looking to blow off steam and then Erica was, you know, Erica.”

Stiles snorted that that. “Erica certainly has that way about her. And, by way, I mean steamrolling you into submission. I can’t believe she’s not an Alpha sometimes.”

“Right?” Derek let out a long-suffering sigh. “She gets these ideas and then just… does them.”

“She’s great, isn’t she.”

Derek’s mouth quirked at that. “Yeah, she is. If I were looking to expand...”

His words trailed off, mouth set once more in a frown. Stiles found himself leaning forward, hoping to hear the rest of that sentence. Had Erica approached Derek about joining his pack? As far as he knew, Derek only had Laura, who was lost in New York or something. From what Stiles had gleaned from the nosy grandmothers at the local bakery, Derek had pretty much kept to himself since returning to Beacon Hills six months ago. Had he had many pack offers? Had Scott made an offer?

The thought made his chest warm for some reason. The idea of Derek Hale, utterly remote even in the middle of a crowded club, being the center of a pack...

“So, do you?”

The question broke his reverie. “Do I what?”

Derek shifted, fingers tapping on his knees. “Come here often.”

Stiles blinked a few times, before swallowing into a smile.

“I mean, sometimes,” he admitted. “Mostly Erica drags me here so we can be bi besties together, but it’s not like anyone’s paying attention to me when there’s _Erica_.”

Something red flashed in Derek’s eyes; Stiles’ pulse stumbled in his throat.

“Not that I get jealous or anything!” He stammered. “I’m not really looking for what Erica’s looking for, because what Erica’s looking for is both incredibly hot and utterly terrifying.”

Derek gave him a flat look. “You just described Erica.”

There was a brief moment, then Stiles couldn’t hold back the laughter bursting from him, surprised and pleased. The way Derek’s mouth widened just slightly, he was pleased himself. Who knew that Derek Hale was secretly hilarious? Stiles wanted to share this with the world, but a little sliver of something inside him wanted to keep it to himself.

“How long have you been working at the SRC?” Stiles asked.

“About six months,” Derek answered. “Deaton knew me before… I’m glad he gave me the chance.”

Stiles let the silence linger as he poured himself another shot. It was a silence filled with things Derek didn’t have to say, and Stiles wasn’t going to cut into those gaping wounds any further.

“I love the SRC,” he began, twirling the shot glass between his fingers before swallowing it down. “My mom worked there as an RN. Sometimes, Deaton would let me stay and watch her work. It was amazing, seeing her spark the connection, guiding them from the zone-out and back into the light. They always looked at her with this expression--I can’t really describe it. Like, she had really saved them, you know?”

He stared into his empty shot glass. “I always wanted to be a Guide.”

Derek blinked at him. “You did?”

Stiles nodded. “Guides are the heart of us. They take what makes us afraid and makes it warm and safe. And, it hurts them. I remember days my mom had, when she felt the pain of the world so badly that she couldn’t get out of bed. I remember thinking, this can’t be fair, right? My mom hasn’t done anything to deserve hurting like that.”

The memory of her still hurt, aching like a fresh bruise in the pit of his stomach. He closed his eyes, swallowing it down, only to suck in a breath when a warm brush slipped inside him, sweeping the pain away.

“She told me that sometimes caring so much meant hurting a little more. And, it amazes me how much she cared and how strong that made her.” He looked up and straight at Derek. “Guides care so much, and that makes them stronger than any Sentinel could be.”

Derek made a small noise, as if he’d been sucker-punched. It made Stiles want to reach out, want to pull him against his chest and burrow Derek’s face in his throat and smell the forest-coffee scent of him straight from the source. The bright-light center of him flared, making him hiss and grab his knees, eyes squeezing shut. A growl rumbled from across him, and he managed to blink his eyes open again to see Derek on his feet, fangs bared and eyes the color of blood.

“Don’t tell me things like that,” he snarled, fists like claws. “Don’t tell me things like you know me. You know nothing about me.”

The music kept thrumming like war drums, paying no attention to the Alpha seething with rage in the thick of everything. Lydia and Jackson were on their feet, Jackson at the forefront and already prepared to intervene while Lydia kept to the side, wolfsbane powder ready in her hand. It was only moments later before Erica and Scott appeared, eyes blazing amber and glancing back and forth between the two of them, as if their loyalties were torn.

“You’re right, I don’t,” Stiles ground out, launching to his feet. He took a moment to strangle the instincts inside him screaming for his Guide, choking them to bearable noise. “But, don’t think I’m an idiot, Derek, just because I’m a Sentinel.”

“I don’t care if you’re a Sentinel,” Derek snapped. “That doesn’t make you mine.”

It felt like his ribs cracked beneath those words, fluid spilling into the cracks. Derek whimpered (as if it were his own chest caving in), before he snarled and practically ran out of the club. Stiles wavered where he stood before sinking back down onto the seat. Familiar hands were on him, and he could smell the books-jasmine (Lydia) and summer-apple (Kira) surrounding him. His eyes were open but he could barely see, and it was only when he felt the dark shimmer across his eyesight that he realized he was zoning out.

“No,” he mumbled, the word crumbling in his mouth. “No, I can’t.”

_That doesn’t make you mine._

The cavity in his ribcage deepened, sucking him further into darkness, where Derek’s voice echoed louder and louder. Panic gripped his lungs, making every breath a painful squeeze as Stiles tried to claw his way back to the surface.

_That doesn’t make you mine._

Everything was dark but one pinpoint of light, one last moment of consciousness.

_That doesn’t make you mine._

That’s when Lydia must have slapped him across the face.

“You slapped me?” He goggled at her, pressing his palm against his aching cheekbone. Stiles had been shoved from darkness to find his friends’ faces staring down at him, Lady Gaga blaring on Jungle’s tinny speakers. Before he could speak, they had quickly scooped him up and managed to get him back to his apartment while he was still punchdrunk and half zoned-out.

“You’re welcome,” she chirped. “You can thank me later.”

“It was a close call, Stiles,” Scott told him. All of them were circled around him on the couch, as if a puppy pile was just what he needed after nearly zoning out in the middle of a gay bar. “You were like seconds away from going totally under. We’re all here to make sure you’re okay.”

“And, this has nothing to do with you and Erica feeling guilty about running after Derek?” Stiles questioned, glowering. He still wasn’t letting go of that little nugget of information (Boyd was so his favorite right now).

Erica and Scott at least managed to look sheepish.

“He’s not, like, officially our alpha?” Erica managed. “I mean, we’ve both made offers and he’s turned them down. But, it’s getting closer? Like, he’s really considering it.”

“While he was there, our scents kept mingling,” Scott continued. “Made it harder to figure out there wasn’t really a pack yet.”

A mug nudged Stiles’ fingers, and he looked up at Boyd, who set it into his hands before sitting across from them rather than join in the pile. Stiles breathed in the scent of mint and matcha. Yeah, totally his favorite.

“I’m--” Stiles cleared his throat. “I’m fine now. Really. I super appreciate the outpouring of love, but I could use a little something called personal space.”

Lydia gave him a withering look. “As if you know what that is.”

It only took another hour of promises and badgering and threats before Stiles had cleared his apartment, leaving him alone with another mug of tea. He collapsed on the couch, hissing when ribs stretched not so pleasantly. He knew he wasn’t really wounded, but the ache remained. Sighing, he took another sip, as if the warmth of the tea would chase the cold away.

Stiles closed his eyes.

_That doesn’t make you mine._

“Yeah,” he whispered. “I know.”


End file.
